


Boys

by orphan_account



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-04-24 04:08:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4904911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just overcome with McHarrison ... Paul's dad contemplates Paul, George and all things gay. Pretty bad to be honest ... I just love McHarrison :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boys

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I don't own the Beatles. You got me. There, I said it :D

I’ve seen you grow up for 15 years of my life. I’ve seen you since you were a little baby boy, who cried when the doctor injected your little chubby legs with lifesaving jabs, developing into the five-year-old who held back the tears when they rode their tricycle into the tree and scraped their elbow, developing into the not-yet-a-man-but-certainly-getting-there who stayed strong for his brother and dad when the most important woman in your life passed on.

I’ve seen you grow up for 15 years of my life and I never suspected a thing. 

So when Mrs. Harrison rung me up this morning, I was surprised to say the least. And honestly? A little betrayed too, if I’m here to tell the truth. Betrayed that you didn’t tell me, and Mikey didn’t tell me, and betrayed by my own eyes which have deceived me for the 15 years I’ve known you. I thought I knew all your secrets. I thought I knew everything about you. And most of all, more importantly than all that, I thought I knew /you/. 

Apparently I thought wrong. 

‘Hello, Jim – I …it’s Louise here. I’m George’s mam.’ 

I nodded. We know each other quite well, see. She’s been great since your ma died. Bakes us cakes and all, though you’re not stupid. You probably know that already. 

‘Hello, Louise. How can I help you?’ 

I could hear her intake of breath from the other side of the phone, her smothered gulp. Her sigh, wrapped like a present in guilt. 

I frowned. ‘Are you alright?’

‘Yes, thank you.’ A subtle steadying. She was getting ready. ‘I … I don’t know if he’s told you, Jim?’

I shook my head. Didn’t understand. ‘N… no?’

A suck of the teeth like a child, licking on a lollipop. And three words, uttered with the utmost sympathy, like my boy was dead. You’re not, but – 

‘He’s queer, Jim.’ 

I blinked. My son? Queer? It was confusion like a blanket, worry like a shroud, because you’re /not/ queer. You play the guitar. You had a girlfriend. You wear tight leather trousers and jackets with zips and black, black, black. You’ve quiffed up your hair so it resembles the behind of a duck. You listen to Elvis. You’re not /queer/. You can’t be … my son? Queer? Laughable. 

‘Forgive me, Mrs. Harrison, but that’s rather a serious accusation to –’

‘He is, and so is George.’ 

See, it’s not common, even in Liverpool, for a relative stranger to interrupt another if they have no reason, especially not a woman. And Louise? Well, she’s kind, isn’t she? It’s out of character. I blinked, eyebrows raising into my forehead, prior sentence stuck in my throat, dying on my lips, fading into nothingness. 

‘I’m … really sorry, Jim, but it’s true.’ 

I think she was crying. Shivery sobs and a cracked voice and a cold truth, and it was. The truth, I mean. It was the truth. It was the cold, hard truth and it scared me. My voice thawed a little, and I addressed her slowly. 

‘What do you mean /queer/, Louise?’ 

‘I /mean/-’ choking out the words like they were sore – ‘that my /son/ came up to me earlier this evening and said that he was in love with yours.’ An intake of breath whose owner could have been me, or my associate. ‘I /mean/, Jim, that your boy and mine are friendlier than society believes them to be. And I /mean/ that they’re /together/, in all senses of the word. Like you and Mary were. Like me and Harry. I mean /queer/, Jim. They’re /queer/. And I don’t like it either, but it’s true. They’re queer, Jim, and I’m sorry.’

I didn’t really know what to say to that, so I hung up. Probably not the best move. Definitely not the /right/ thing to do, but I was choking. It was fear, I think. Cutting off my supply of rational thinking until my head was in my hands and I was crying for the first time in weeks. I was crying for you, mainly. You could have been great. You’re a whizz with that instrument of yours, son. Made it big, I reckon. And your voice too… 

Suddenly Mike was by my side, a shadow of concern, but I was too upset to really care about how much I was scaring him. He never sees me cry. I reserve that special father-son time for you, Paul. Count yourself lucky. 

‘What’s wrong, Da?’ A voice like he’s just run a marathon. Looks like he’s just seen a ghost. Intonation high; he’s a late bloomer, see. Still a boy. 

I raised my watery eyes to his, seeing the worry etched in the contours of his face, Mary’s eyebrows knotting closer together as we stared, chin jutting out, lip wedged in his teeth. ‘Da?’

‘You … you /knew/, didn’t you? You /knew/.’ A slip of the features and the concern turned to panic.

‘No –’

And he was gone. Your brother’s loyal, if nothing else. He’s a good boy, Mikey. You are too though, and don’t you forget it. I loved you before I knew it, and I love you still. And George’s ma says you’re queer your whole life, so you won’t have changed one bit. I feel a bit shallow now. 

It was sometime later that you came downstairs. I think Mike must’ve told you, because he followed with a face like a slap and red eyes, whilst you looked grimmer than I’ve seen you since Mary lost the battle to cancer. You’re a beautiful boy, Paulie, and I hope you realise that. You could get anyone you wanted. I need you to understand. 

‘Who told you?’

And you come straight out with it, the proper Scouse way. No beating around the bush; you get straight to the point, and it’s good. I’ll try to copy you in every way I can. I’ll try and be accepting. I’ll try and be neutral. Honestly.

‘Mrs. Harrison. Paul-’

‘It’s true, and nothing you say is going to change it. You can’t change … who I love, Da. You can’t –’

I’m shaking my head, and you’re running now, into my arms and sobbing like a three year old, muttering nonsense words into my shoulder-blade, and I can’t bear it. Don’t be sad, my love. Don’t let anyone change you. Please. I beg of you. 

‘I love him, and I do …’ 

‘I /know/ you do, Paulie, and it’s /okay/. It’s alright, I swear. I don’t mind; it’s okay. It’s –’

‘Da, he’s so lovely to me, and he’s so funny and I love him, I do -’

‘I know, and it’s/ okay/, and -’

‘Please don’t make me leave him, Da –’

‘I won’t, Paulie –’

‘Please don’t hate me …’

‘I don’t, my love. It’s okay. Don’t worry. It’s okay.’ 

‘Okay?’

‘It’s okay.’

Shuddery breaths from both sides of the fence. Words like teardrops, threatening to fall. A crying boy and a crying man, and to be honest with you, I’m not completely sure which is which. 

And now I’m looking you. You’re curled in his arms and he in yours and you’re grinning so wide I can hardly see the rest of your face for your smile – for your beam. He’s biting his lip to hide his own and Louise and Harry are sitting next to me with matching beams and I’m smiling too. You’re clouded by love, I can see that now. I realise I was a selfish git. I realise that as your eyes interlock and your fingers intertwine, your hearts are definitely in the right places. I realise you really /are/ in love. It won’t ruin your futures. It won’t hurt your lives. It will enrich your beings and ripen your soul. It will be better than getting a girl you’ll cheat on and mould to fit your ideals. It’s a good thing. 

And I realise that. 

I do.


End file.
